


A Picture of Me Without You

by the-reylo-void (Anysia)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Drinking & Talking, F/M, POV Multiple, Rey Needs A Hug (Star Wars), Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anysia/pseuds/the-reylo-void
Summary: "I suppose I'd somehow struggle through / But I'd hate to picture myself without you." — Cole PorterIt's impossible not to have a soulmark. It's not a big deal, not in the lax and gin-soaked speakeasies of 1920s Manhattan, but it's still a heavy weight to bear, as Ben Solo and Rey find out side by side.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 30
Kudos: 182
Collections: To Find Your Kiss: The Reylo Fanfiction Anthology's Valentine's Day Exchange





	A Picture of Me Without You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpaceWaffleHouseTM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWaffleHouseTM/gifts).



> Happy V-Day, SpaceWaffleHouse! I don't want to give away the surprise with the full text of the prompt I was given, but suffice it to say it involves speakeasies, soulmarks, and sentimentality. I hope you enjoy it. <3 
> 
> (Many thanks and apologies to Cole Porter.)

**A PICTURE OF ME WITHOUT YOU**

* * *

**His Story**

“The ship wasn’t late into port. Take it up with the Teamsters; they’re the ones who have the convoy tangled up down in Carolina.” 

“Shipment won’t keep well in that cold, Solo. My client’s not happy.” 

Ben can all but see Armitage’s curdled sneer even as the line crackles with interference. Always a good bet someone’s listening who isn’t supposed to be, but the operation keeps enough palms greased and enough appetites whetted to head off the worst of it. “It’ll be your head if the quality’s not what it’s supposed to be,” Hux continues. “Thirty dark. Fifteen light. We’ll know if you’ve skimmed off the top or cut it with that foul bathtub rubbish.” 

“You can check it yourself,” Ben cuts in bluntly. “Two days, all accounted for, or you’ll get the family rate.” 

“ _Family,_ ” Armitage scoffs, and Ben scowls. “That rabble-rousing mother of yours? Or, don’t tell me: at long last you've got some poor girl's mark.”

“It’s 1925, Hux. Who damn well cares about marks these days?” 

Armitage laughs, cruel and mocking. “But we _do_ all have them, Solo.” 

Ben says nothing for a moment, index finger twisting tight around the fabric phone cord. “Two days, Hux. You’ll get your damned shipment.” 

A discontented huff, and Ben’s finger tightens. “See to it, Solo. We won’t tolerate failure.” 

Ben opens his mouth to retort, but then there’s only the tinny voice of the operator talking to him, the echo of a frustrated slam as he sets the earpiece down. As if running rum up to New York in the dead of winter was easy, let alone in the quantities Hux and Snoke asked for. In his father’s time, it had been a quick enough trip from Canada over the frozen Great Lakes, but the provincial governments had made short work of that after the war. Now it’s all carefully cultivated relationships in the Caribbean, generous bribes to port officials in Florida, and a complicated system of over-road hauling on a winding path up the Eastern Seaboard.

All so Alfred Snoke and his “associates” can have their blasted highballs. 

Damned temperance movement. Ben sighs and rolls a knot in his shoulders out. Hell if it wasn’t good for business, but it had been so much easier back when there was a whiskey and soda on every corner in town. 

Ben settles the brim of his hat low over his eyes and swings his coat over his shoulders as he steps out from the telegraph office into the cold Manhattan night, the sidewalks patchwork-shiny with ice and the garish lights of the corner nightclub washing over him in yellows and reds. 

Five years now of Prohibition, and there was Ben, not quite thirty, carrying on the family’s legacy. 

“Of all the things you could have taken up from your father,” Leia had sighed the second night after the act passed when he’d arrived on her doorstop, two bottles in tow, but still she allowed him to fill her glass: neat, always, no-nonsense to her core. A drop splashed onto the table, just missing her crisp white dress, and she frowned at him. 

“Don’t worry,” Ben said, and there was just the faintest hint of Han’s smirk on his lips. “I promise not to break your arrest record.” 

“There’s a difference between fighting for the vote and you and your father running hooch to half the city,” Leia said pointedly. There was a faint smile on her lips, and she tilted her glass to regard the faded blue lines wrapped around her wrist. 

“Better than fighting for whatever it was we were doing on the Western Front.” Ben’s gaze had darkened, and he’d dropped an ice cube into his own glass with a sharp _clink._

In Manhattan, the lights continue to pass over him, exhaust thick in the air and on his tongue, acrid. It’s a short walk to the nondescript brownstone on the corner, but the January night is bitter-cold. He ducks his head into his coat, dark eyes skimming the block ahead. 

_Cold enough for the bulls to be in,_ Ben thinks, eyeing the corner where he’s had more than a few run-ins with Detective Ackbar over the last few years. Fair enough; his pockets are light until Hux’s rum makes it to the Chesapeake drop, not that Ackbar has ever been receptive to donations from the First Order. 

A single porchlight glows beside the barred front door of the brownstone, and Ben navigates the icy stairs carefully, swearing as his wingtips slide and he raps his knuckles against the door three times.

One answering rap, a pause, then two more.

One. Two. 

Ben glances behind him. A small mixed gaggle of teenagers are laughing riotously amongst themselves as they come up the sidewalk. 

Three. Four. Five.

The door swings open, and Gwen appears silhouetted by the low lamplight, short platinum hair in neat pin rolls, her suit tailored to the inch. “Solo,” she greets, leaning down to kiss his cheek as she leads him in. 

Ben raises an eyebrow as the teenagers gasp, scandalized, as Ben tips his hat to them and disappears into the building with her. 

“Don’t worry,” Gwen says, placing a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “As far as they know you’re just another john out for a warm night with a friendly face.” Her ice-blue eyes are bright, cold, and there’s a series of matte-black diamonds running along the inside of her arm. 

Ben gestures to them. “I have to think the gentleman who matches those would have something to say about that.” 

Gwen’s hand tightens, and he winces. “Armitage does as I tell him,” she says, voice deceptively sweet, honeyed acid. “And he tells me we’re dreadfully short of rum tonight.” She releases Ben’s shoulder and jerks her head towards the far wall.

Ben settles into step behind her as Gwen’s long, pale fingers trace along the wingback chair, the velvet-upholstered chaise, over to one of several identical wall panels. “You should still have plenty of other options on tap,” he notes. There’s a low buzz even from this side of the wall, rising. 

“The brandy is excellent,” Gwen observes, manicured nails curving into an imperceptible notch in the panel and pushing it open. “Scotch and rye left a bit to be desired.” 

The voices and din grow louder as Ben follows Gwen down the narrow, low-ceilinged staircase. “Doesn’t much sound like you’re hurting for business,” he notes drily. 

“We’ve a parcel of girls in from the factory tonight,” Gwen observes as they reach the basement. It’s a beautifully-appointed space, all reds and dark woods, heavy double doors barring passage to the saloon. She nods at the white-uniformed man guarding them. “They’re asking for daiquiris.” 

Ben rolls his eyes as he hands the man his coat and hat. “You sent Armitage after me because a bunch of dames want daiquiris?”

“I could use a rum and Coca-Cola myself, Solo,” Gwen says. She strokes his cheek, and Ben frowns at her. “Shame, they’re a swell looking group. Maybe if you’d’ve been able to ply one of them with a strawberry daiquiri you would have gotten yourself a sweet little sheba to keep you company tonight.” 

“Mm,” Ben says noncommittally as the guard swings open the doors. “I think that ship’s sailed. Metaphorically speaking.” 

Gwen raises an eyebrow at him. “Because of the mark?” She laughs, short and sharp. “Solo, I never knew you were so old-fashioned. Who actually meets their mark-mate these days?”

“You and Armitage,” he points out. 

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Just have a little fun, you wet blanket,” she says tartly. “That sour puss of yours is terrible for business.” 

\---

It’s a sophisticated operation, the First Order. 

Nominally, this particular brownstone is owned by Alfred Snoke, respected cityman and well-connected financier. He’s a generous man and rents out the place to his niece, Gwen, a well-heeled socialite heiress from Philadelphia, and her husband, a titled British importer/exporter with connections to the subcontinent. They’re all of them respected members of the moneyed elite of Manhattan, an impenetrable front to the most successful network of speakeasies in the city. 

Gwen’s is arguably the nicest, with a broad parquet dance floor and live in-house music (and a state-of-the-art Victrola for when the band is too deep into the hooch to play), antique cherrywood tables, and the widest variety of booze in all of New York. At Gwen’s, Prohibition is more of a quaint idea. 

Ben nods to the bartender and leans back against the bar, whiskey in hand. He takes a sip and grimaces — Gwen was right. Not the best. He’d have to check in with Dopheld’s supplier next week; the last one had been caught watering down the product and… well. That had been the end of that. 

Ben sips his whiskey, dark eyes following the sharp-suited men idling against the far wall. Unfamiliar faces on protection tonight, but then he was early. 

There’s a rolling peal of high, girlish laughter, and Ben swallows and sets his glass beside him on the bar, taking in the small group of young women gathered at the far end of the saloon, young men crowding around them. They’re neatly-dressed, all brightly-colored kneedusters and bared elbows, laughing and jibing with the men around them.

All except one.

She’s plainer than the others, hair in soft finger waves instead of a severe bob, pale and freckled. She frowns at the young man at her side, eyes narrowing as she hovers over her glass protectively. 

Ben manages a small smile, reaching for his glass again and taking a long draught. Most of the girls who wandered into Gwen’s were bearcats — Gwen herself chief among them — but this one had an intriguing spark that... 

_Fool,_ a small voice whispered to him. _What do you plan to do with her?_

Ben’s smile faded, and he finished his drink, motioning to the bartender for another. He turned back to the bar, bracing his arms against the dark wood. 

There’s an indignant cry, and he glances over his shoulder to see the freckled girl’s fist pulling back, the young man in front of her reeling. 

Somewhere, a glass breaks. 

The dark-suited men at the far wall are moving. 

Ben moves faster.

* * *

**Her Story**

In hindsight, Rey probably should have told Kaydel to scram when she’d first floated the idea. Not that it would have been easy, with both of them hunched over the sewing machines and Plutt’s shrewd eyes forever scanning the factory floor. 

“But it’s illegal!” Rey had said when Kaydel shouted to her over the deafening hum of the machines. She cursed, easing off the pedal and attempting to disentangle the mess of thread and shirt sleeves in front of her. 

“So?” Kaydel rolled her eyes. “Like that’s stopped half the city? Come on, we could all of us use a spot after they raised the quotas _again_.” She spat in Plutt’s direction. “We need a union.” 

Rey pursed her lips and raised the hand wheel on her machine, working quickly to extricate the fabric. It wasn’t that she disagreed, exactly — lord knew the Reds down the block, Poe and Finn, were always loudly going on about workers’ rights — but at least Plutt’s factory paid more than stealing scraps on the streets of London.

“How have you been in America for a year and still not found your way to a single gin joint?” Tallie joined in across the aisle, dark eyebrows raised. “Ooh, we can do your hair!” 

“Do you want ribbons to match your mark?” Jessika called over. “What color are you? I’m purple, and Kaydel and Tallie are both green, but we can swing by my ma’s after work for whatever matches you.” 

Rey flushed and ducked her head, staring fixedly at the tangled threads in front of her. “Actually,” she started, “I don’t have one.” 

“No color? How does that—”

“No, I don’t…” Rey sighed and unbuttoned her cuffs, pushing her sleeves up and turning her wrists outward for them to inspect, in all their pale, unmarked glory.

Kaydel’s eyes widened, and Rey pursed her lips at the sound of Jessika and Tallie’s suppressed gasps. “That’s not…” She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s not possible. _Everyone_ has a mark.” 

“Gosh, Kay, you’re embarrassing her,” Tallie admonished. “Rey, doll, it doesn’t even matter anymore. You’re a modern woman! Who cares about marks these days?” 

Rey said nothing as she rebuttoned her cuffs and straightened her sleeves. “Eight tonight?” she said, not looking at the girls.

Kaydel exchanged glances with them before shrugging. “Nine,” she corrected. “No one who’s anyone shows up before nine.” She hesitated. “So… were you born without it, or did something happen to—”

“I never had one,” Rey said shortly. “They thought I was a late bloomer for awhile, but by the time I was of age…” She focuses on winding a bobbin. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“It doesn’t,” Kaydel agreed, nodding at Tallie. 

\---

It mattered.

It had been one of the things that kept Rey company when she was little, there on cold nights in her hovel in the East End, everything reeking of stale gin and vomit: one day, she would get her mark, the sign that somewhere there was someone who would love her, only her, and together they would leave this place.

Her caretakers had laughed when she’d mentioned it in passing, cruel and mocking. “Dreaming of being a fairy princess, this one,” Frannie had said. “You’ll be lucky enough if a skinny thing like you matches with the old shoemaker down the way.” 

It had hurt. 

It had hurt more when she turned fifteen and her wrist stayed pale and smooth. It was the same at sixteen. Then seventeen.

Frannie would have had words for it, but Frannie was dead. Rey had asked about it, when she’d come home to find unfamiliar men in the bolthole of a flat, rummaging through her things, but all she’d ever learned is that she was likely in the same potter’s field as Rey’s own parents, dead from the same drink.

She was nineteen when she finally scraped together enough coin to head to America, where instead of dreams and a fresh start she found backbreaking piecework on a smoke-filled factory floor in the Garment District and a narrow brick flat she shared with three other girls. 

“Says she’s a late-bloomer,” Jessika said to her mother as the older woman’s eyebrows rose up to her hairline at the sight of Rey’s blank wrist. “It’ll come, you’ll see,” she said in a reassuring voice to Rey. 

Rey grimaced as Jessika’s mother tugged at her hair, and she leaned back in the straight-backed kitchen chair to allow her better access. “How old are you, girl?” Jessika’s mother asked around a mouthful of hairpins.

“Twenty.”

Jessika winced across the table, and Rey resisted the urge to throw the hairbrush at her. 

“I don’t mean to be unkind,” Jessika’s mother observed, “but, dear, Jessika was a late-bloomer at fourteen. Her father and I had our marks at twelve. My word, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of it appearing past sixteen. At twenty…” She trailed off, silently continuing to tease Rey’s brown hair into neat waves. 

“It’s alright.” Rey swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “I’ve read about it. Few people actually ever meet their mark-mate, let alone marry them.” 

“Yes, but.” Jessika’s mother hesitated. “Having no mark at _all_ is… unusual. To say the least.”

“Mother,” Jessika said sharply. “It’s 1925. It doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve gained the vote…” 

“Jessika, not this again.” 

“...and we can marry whomever we please! Mark or no mark. Right, Rey?” Jessika reached across the table and patted Rey’s hand in encouragement, and Rey attempted a weak smile in response. 

In truth, it was a steep hill to climb. On the few — very few — occasions Rey had been keen on a boy, it had ended as soon as he’d seen her bare wrist. 

It was one thing to be progressive and love and accept a sweetheart with someone else’s mark on their skin. It was another thing to bear your heart to someone whose unmarked skin deemed them incapable of doing the same.

“I don’t think that’s the path for me,” Rey said carefully. “Once, maybe, I thought I'd find my match, have someone who would love me for…” She coughed. “But that's past, now. These days I think I’d be content enough to travel the world. Build a life for myself outside of marks and expectations. Maybe even learn to aviate like Amelia Earhart or Neta Snook, fly a plane to Paris and dance by the Seine.”

Jessika’s eyebrows rose, and Rey followed her eyeline to above the crown of her own head and knew she and her mother were exchanging disbelieving glances. 

“Just an idea,” she murmured, and stared down at the grain of the kitchen table. 

\---

Alcohol is _terrible._

“I can’t believe it!” Kaydel laughs in her ear. Her lips are painted shiny red, her eyes lined with kohl. “You lived in London all those years and never had gin?”

Rey makes a face. “I apparently wasn’t missing much.” She pushes her glass away. 

Tallie tosses her head, her earrings jingling. “Fine night for them not to have rum,” she grouses. “You’d like a daiquiri, Rey, I just know it. Fruity, sweet, and smooth.” 

“And _cold,_ ” Jessika points out. She takes a sip of the whiskey in front of her, leaving a trace of plum lipstick on the glass. 

Kaydel and Tallie had joined them at half to nine, gussied and prepped. Rey had refused their offer of lipsticks and powders, finally relenting only to let Jessika apply petroleum jelly to her eyelids to make them shine, and together they’d taken the subway to a nondescript brownstone on the Upper East Side. 

“Have you been here before?” Rey had asked _sotto voce_ as the girls followed the tall blonde woman who answered the door with a familiar ease. 

Jessika shook her head. “We’re going fancy tonight for your first trip,” she grinned. “The First Order network has the best places in town.” 

It’s fancy enough, Rey supposes — even the armchair they’d passed as they entered the brownstone probably cost more than Rey’s ticket to America. And the hidden speakeasy in the basement is alive with activity, lively conversation rising above the sounds of jazz from the band in the corner. 

“Smoke?”

Rey starts as a young man appears at her side, blond hair slicked back with pomade and an easy grin on his lips. “No, thank you,” Rey demurs, turning back to her drink. She frowns at the other young men — this one’s friends? — who have assembled around their table. “We were just—”

“—saying how lovely the music is tonight,” Tallie cut in, batting her eyelashes at the dark-haired young man next to her. “Gershwin is the bee’s knees.” 

“He’s a cool cat for sure.” Rey watches as Tallie accepts a cigarette from the man and lets him light it. Across the table, Kaydel and Jessika have found paramours of their own, leaving Rey in awkward silence with the blond. 

“Beau,” he says, with what Rey assumes is an attempt at a disarming smile. “Beau Brown.” 

“Rey.” 

“Rey…” He raises his eyebrows, motions for her to continue.

“Just Rey,” she responds flatly. Her lips tighten into a white line as Beau leans against the table, crowding her, and she moves protectively towards her drink. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he laughs. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

Rey says nothing, just stares into her drink. She’d fought off far worse than this boy in the East End, but he _is_ rather cutting into her attempts to enjoy her (horrible) cocktail. 

“Care to dance?” 

“I’m alright, thank you,” Rey says, curt. 

“Would you like another drink?”

Rey shoots him a pointed look over her glass. “I’d like you to leave me alone, please.” 

The friendly look in Beau’s eyes fades a little as his gaze passes over her wrist, and Rey internally kicks herself for rebuffing Jessika’s mother’s offer of a borrowed bracelet. 

“A million people have seen me without a mark,” Rey had insisted. “A handful more can bear it.” 

Maybe not, after all.

Beau’s eyes narrow in confusion. “What gives?” he asks. “I’ve heard of dames gussyin’ up, but you covered up your mark? What are you afraid of?” He flashes her an easy grin, rolls up his cuff enough for her to see the orange dashed lines on his own wrist. “Maybe we match,” he says, lowering his voice, and Rey pushes back in her chair. “Maybe it doesn’t matter, if you’re here.” 

He reaches for her, and Rey is suddenly back in an alley in the East End, irate shopkeepers and the constable at her heels, half-starved after four days of nothing, fingers tight around the bread in her pocket as she’d run out of alley and turned to fight _…_

Her balled fist comes up and connects before she even realizes what she’s done.

“What the _f—_ ” Beau spits blood to the side, roaring up, chair clattering noisily to the floor. 

Everything is happening in slow motion. 

The table wobbles, tilts, falls, glasses shattering on the parquet. 

Men in dark suits with scarred faces are making their way towards them, and Rey’s heart seizes as she recognizes the shape of a gun. 

And then, before she understands what’s happening, a large hand wraps around her wrist, pulling her bodily to stand behind a towering frame. 

* * *

**Their Story**

“Cool it,” Ben growls to the thugs in front of them. The blond man is holding a cocktail napkin to his bleeding mouth, the girls are staring wide-eyed at Gwen’s enforcers, and the saloon is dead quiet. 

“Solo, what the _hell_ have you done?” Gwen comes stalking over from behind the bar. 

“I—” Ben glances at the girl behind him, pale and shaken. “I’m sorry, he just wouldn’t go away…” 

Gwen’s eyes narrow, and she levels Ben with a flat stare. “Did you—”

“That one,” Ben says shortly, motioning to the blond man, “put his hands on her, so she clocked him. You’d have done the same, Gwen, and you damn well know it.” 

Gwen falls silent, chewing on her lower lip and crossing her arms over her chest. Finally, she nods to the thugs, and they crowd around the overturned table, speaking in strident tones to the young men as the girls cling together and nearby waiters rush to clear the broken glass. 

Ben sighs and turns back to the girl, and he’s relieved and surprised to see she already looks steadier on her feet. “You okay?”

She nods, closing her eyes. Her eyelids shimmer in the low light of the saloon, and Ben finds himself intrigued by it. “Men,” she sighs. “You lot have trouble minding yourselves.” 

“About what you’d expect here in the saloon,” Ben notes, trailing the girl to the bar as she climbs up onto a stool and rests her head in her folded hands. “Judging by your accent, I’m guessing you’re new to the scene.” 

The girl stares at him in disbelief, and Ben is oddly taken by the color of her eyes, brown gray green and everything in between. “Are you really trying to chat me up now?” she asks, almost laughing. “I appreciate the rescue, but I can handle myself, and I’ve had enough of all of this tonight.” 

Ben retrieves his refilled glass, raising it to the bartender. “I was here first, actually,” he says mildly. “I’m not much for the scene myself. I’m only here tonight to resolve a problem.” 

“What a terrible line.” 

“It’s true.” Ben leans back up against the bar, glancing at the girl. “This is business.” He motions to Gwen, fuming as she shouts orders at the thugs. “Gwen’s an old friend in the market. I help keep the place stocked.” 

The girl raises an eyebrow at him as he motions to the bartender. “What were you having?” 

“Something that tasted like turpentine,” she observes with a grimace. “Enough for one night.” 

“Rey!” A dark-haired girl with smudged eyes rushes to the girl’s side. “Thank goodness, they’re not throwing us out. Billy gave them some coin and an apology and smoothed things over.” 

The girl — Rey — manages a weak smile, and Ben’s eyes widen as she plucks the glass from his hand and downs its contents. “That’s great, Jessika,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You girls go on and have a great time. I think I’m going to spend some time getting to know my rescuer here.” She turns to him with coy eyes, a soft smile on her lips. 

The dark-haired girl squeals, and Ben quickly orders another drink, only half-hearing the whispered conversation between them as he attempts to settle his racing heartbeat. The dark-haired girl eventually rejoins the others, and the group retreats to one of the inner rooms with their men in tow. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” the girl — _Rey,_ the other girl had said her name was Rey — says, and her voice is strict but her eyes are light. “I had to get rid of her somehow.” 

Ben swallows hard, and he’s dismayed to see his fingers shaking as he reaches for the new glass. 

He’s been with women before, of course. Not many, something for which Hux has ribbed him endlessly over their five years of acquaintance, but enough. The type of girls who frequent speakeasies by themselves aren’t concerned by the unmarked skin on his wrist, and even if the sex is unremarkable and the emotional connection nonexistent, it was… fine. 

At least until his wrist had started burning every time he tried. 

It had started about a year ago. He’d been infrequent enough at the odd tumble, one or two a year mostly to keep Gwen from haranguing him. But at New Year’s she’d introduced him to a perky little redhead who had barely kissed him before it felt like his skin was burning raw. 

It hadn’t much been worth it after that, no matter how much Gwen pestered, or how much his mother worried that he’d end up like his uncle, an eccentric hermit in a monastery in Minnesota. 

He’d be thirty in November.

His mark had never appeared, and his body seemed to have decided to reject any advances in its absence. 

That’s just how it is. 

Ben takes a long sip of his whiskey, glancing at the girl beside him. 

It’s just how it is.

But for the first time in a long while…

“Can I catch the subway this late at night?” Rey asks him, pushing her glass aside. “I didn’t intend on heading home alone without the girls, but here we are.” 

Ben stares at her.

\---

He’s handsome. 

Odd and intense, with dark-whiskey eyes and shiny dark hair and features that seem strangely assembled, but large and pleasant enough. 

Rey’s wrist itches, and she scratches at it in annoyance. “I suppose I could walk,” she sighs. “This many blocks, I'd probably get home just in time for my next shift at the factory.” 

“I… oh.” The man’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s nodding. “Sorry, I thought—” 

Rey stares at him curiously. 

“Nothing,” he mumbles. Rey watches as he throws back his drink in one gulp, motioning for another.

“You can really hold your liquor,” Rey observes with a raised eyebrow.

The man shrugs. “Comes with the business. My father was better, though.” 

“Oh?”

He nods. “He was an old rum runner out of Bermuda in the 90s. He did a lot of work domestically, but the big money was in hauling the stuff yourself, no middle man. He eventually ended up with six different bounties on his head, made his way to Paris to beat the heat. That’s where he met my mother.” 

The man laughs self-consciously, shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m sure you don’t care about any of that. I’m Ben, by the way.” He extends his hand. 

Rey hesitates a moment before shaking it. His stare is intense, but so far he’s kept a respectable distance between them. “Is your mother French, then?”

“No, just bohemian.” Ben flashes her a grin, and Rey feels something warm in the middle of her chest.

She glances at the bar and motions for another drink. 

“She was a bluestocking. Is, I guess. Was studying at the Sorbonne when she met a smooth-talking pirate at a bar.” 

“Likely story,” Rey says with a faint smile. Ben smiles back, turning and hauling himself up onto the bar stool next to her. 

“It was kind of funny,” Ben observes, slipping a crisp bill from his pocket and sliding it across the bar towards the bartender with a meaningful look. “My father’s mark was blue, and damned fool always thought it was for the sea.” 

Rey raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “He didn’t.” 

“I swear. It wasn’t until he saw my mother’s that he thought, okay, blue sea, bluestocking, same difference.” He nods to the bartender as two dark tumblers of liquid are set in front of them. “My treat. This is the real stuff.” 

Rey takes the glass and stares at it dubiously. “As opposed to…” 

“This is from before the act,” Ben says. “It’s not post-Prohibition. Better quality, harder to come by. I keep a bottle here for special occasions.” 

“And you’re sharing it with me?” 

Ben is quiet for a moment before reaching out to take his own glass in hand. “Sharing it with someone who looked like she was having about as great a day as I was,” he says. His gaze is inscrutable, and Rey feels it down to her toes. 

When he reaches out his glass, she can see herself reflected in his eyes. 

“I’m—” She hesitates. 

_Scared._

_Going to disappoint you._

_Not sure what I’m doing._

“I’m Rey,” she says finally. 

Ben nods, and clinks her glass with his. She can see herself reflected in his dark eyes. 

“Nice to meet you, Rey,” he says, and her name on his lips somehow, strangely, feels right.

\---

Time is behaving oddly. 

Gwen discourages watches and timepieces in her saloon — easier to keep her patrons at the bar drinking if they aren’t sure of the lateness of the hour — but it _feels_ late as Ben signals for another round. 

His skin feels like it’s on fire, but it’s a pleasant tingling, whiskey in his veins and Rey’s smile shining on the bar stool next to him. 

“I bet he’s lying,” she says, propping her head up on her elbow. “I’m British same as him and I don’t even know where Carolina is. Tell him the rum’ll be here when it’s here and he can sod off.” 

Her cheeks are flushed, and dear God she is beautiful. 

“Hux is the worst,” Ben says, and he can feel himself swaying a little. 

“To hell with Hux,” Rey agrees. 

They toast, and he’s lost count of how many times it is.

But he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.

\---

Rey thinks she might be steadier on her feet than Ben is, which is something of a surprise. 

“Or maybe not,” Rey says, staring down into her glass, features cloudy. “My parents died from the drink.” 

Ben watches her carefully but says nothing. 

Rey sighs. “Or at least they told me they did. My caretakers, I mean. I barely remember my parents.” 

Ben stares at the bartop. “You said…” He begins, trails off, glances sidelong at her and pushes his glass aside. “Something about them... selling you.” 

Rey stiffens, her hands tightening around her glass. “I didn’t know you heard that part.” 

“You’re easy to listen to.” 

Rey bites her lip. “It wasn’t anything indecent,” she says carefully. “It was to a workhouse. There was a gin shortage at the time. I cost three bottles.” 

Ben is silent beside her. 

“I worked hard for a long time to make my way,” she says. “Stole when it wasn’t enough. I’m not proud of it.” 

“You should be.” Ben’s voice is thick, and Rey stares at his hand where it’s close to hers on the bar. “You survived.” 

Rey shrugs, but Ben shakes his head. “I was in the war,” he says softly. “Just a year, at the end. The things I saw…” 

He pushes his glass away, and Rey pulls back a fraction as he turns to her, eyes soft and wet. 

“Three bottles,” he repeats. 

Rey pushes her own glass aside, and when Ben’s pinky brushes over hers, she links them together. 

She can barely hear him over the band, and it's muttered under his breath, but she swears she hears it. 

_"I wouldn't give you away for all the rum in Carolina."_

\---

It’s Cole Porter that makes them dance. 

The band is sauced but the tune is there, and they stay a respectable distance apart as they dance together. 

Rey is awkward and fumbling, but Ben is an old hand on the dancefloor, and she stares up at him with soft eyes as he squeezes her hand and gently presses fingertips into her back to move her into hold. 

His wrist lies against hers, and there’s no burning, no pain.

Instead, Ben feels… calm. Content. 

Oddly whole. 

“I like this song,” Rey murmurs, and she only pauses a moment before she rests her head on his chest. 

Ben wraps his arms around her and holds her close. “I’m kind of liking it myself,” he says with a faint smile. 

\---

She needs to tell him, Rey thinks as the saloon empties out, as the blond woman raises her eyebrows from the far side of the room but leaves them alone. 

\---

He needs to tell her, Ben thinks as Gwen cuts the lights and they laugh, tipsy more on each other than anything, and before he knows it they’re in one of the interior rooms, Rey pressing him up against the paneling and staring up at him with wide, dark eyes. 

\---

Instead, she kisses him in the dark, her hands cradling his face. 

\---

Instead, he kisses her back, hoisting her up into his arms and holding her close to his heart. 

\---

It shouldn’t be possible, as Ben kisses her, smooths his hands over her bare skin, cups and caresses and tastes, her name a reverent whisper, a promise, a plea. 

\---

It shouldn’t be possible, as he presses his forehead to Rey’s, stroking his thumbs over her shoulders as she clings to him, her breath coming in short pants as he pushes into her. 

\---

The Victrola turns, and two hearts heal.

\---

Ben wakes dry-mouthed and sore, an insistent pounding at the back of his head, groaning and attempting to shift as the soft weight burrowed into his chest clings tighter. 

It comes back to him in a rush.

 _The rum that man the fight_ **_Rey_ ** _Cole Porter her hands and her mouth and her body pressed against his in the dark…._

Ben gingerly pushes himself up to sit against the headboard and glances down at Rey’s sleeping form. Her hair is a frizzy, curled mess, and she has a spot of drool at the corner of her mouth. She’s snoring. 

He finds it unbearably adorable. 

Ben reaches out to stroke a stray tendril of hair from her face, only to freeze, his blood running cold as he looks down at his skin. 

There’s a mark on his wrist. 

He stares at it, not moving for an interminable moment, before turning his wrist in the weak light. It’s brown gray green, everything in between, lines and semicircles. 

Two hands, reaching for each other. 

The color of her eyes.

Ben closes his eyes and rests his head back against the headboard with a hard _thunk._

“Ben?” a sleepy murmur sounds from his chest, and Ben's heart falls.

Rey is awake, staring at him, and he's run out of time.

“I should have told you,” he says in a rush, and Rey clutches the sheet to her chest as she sits up. 

“It’s…” He starts, falters, looks at his wrist again before holding it out to her. Rey stares at the mark, not comprehending, brow furrowed and eyes still sleep-clouded. “I didn’t have one,” Ben says in a rush. “I know everyone has one but…” 

Rey shakes her head. “I understand."

"No, you don't, it's—"

"No, I really do, Ben," she sighs and lolls her head against her shoulder. "I—"

Her eyes widen, and she goes still. 

Ben strokes his thumb over the mark on his wrist (his _mark,_ finally, after all this time), staring at it in wonder and heart warming with the hope that maybe, just maybe... “Maybe it’s because of—”

He pales, falling silent as he looks at Rey, stock-still and trembling, eyes wide and shining with tears. 

_Fool,_ the small voice from the night before whispers again, but gentle this time. Sad. 

“Hey,” Ben says softly, reaching out to stroke the bare skin of her shoulder. She doesn’t move. “Rey. It’s okay. It was one night. I won’t hold you to anything. I didn’t have a mark for thirty years. Nothing’s going to change now that—” 

Rey finally looks at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes are bright, and her right hand is clasped into a fist over her heart. “I never had one either,” she manages. “They told me I was a late bloomer, that eventually I’d get my mark. I never did. I never belonged anywhere. I was always alone.”

Ben moves his hand to brush aside her tears with one knuckle. “You’re not alone,” he says, voice rough, eyes wet. 

Rey stares up at him, and takes his hand and turns her palm upwards. 

She's crying and smiling all at once, and Ben’s eyes go wide, heart beating fit to burst as he sees it. 

There, on her wrist, the same mark. 

The color of her eyes.

His hand. 

Her hand. 

_Their_ hands, reaching towards each other, before they even knew.

Rey's fingers tighten around his.

“Neither are you,” she whispers. 


End file.
